The wedding
by BBCRULES
Summary: The story of John's marriage, and how it fell apart. Three part story. If you squint real hard, preslash -your eyes will hurt:) Mary could've been a good person. Reviews are welcome given this is my first attempt.Thank you for reading.
1. Chapter 1

How would Sherlock react to the marriage of John Watson? He won't welcome it for the time being. Sherlock came back to London almost after three years only to find out that John was to marry Mary Morstan in two days. Mycroft and Molly had known and assisted Sherlock's fake suicide. Sherlock appeared on the doorstep of 221A two days ago. BETA-READ - My thanks goes to AreYouReady... :)

* * *

**The day before John Watson's wedding.**

With a tea tray in her hand, Mrs. Hudson ignored her hips and followed Sherlock upstairs. She put the tray on the table between the two chairs near the fireplace, and turned on the kettle to boil water. Sherlock furrowed his brows at her.

"Mrs. Hudson, isn't it too late for tea? It's almost 9:30."

"Well, you're chilled to the bone, and I'd like to talk with you."

The old lady chattered about the weather, Mrs. Turner's new boyfriend, the outrageous pricing of grocery...and gave a furtive look at the man from time to time. While waiting for the kettle to boil, she asked with a disapproving look at the pale face,

"Did you have dinner? Would you like some biscuits? I can get some from downstairs."

"Yes, at Mycroft's. I'll pass on the biscuits. Get to the point, Mrs. Hudson. You've got something to say."

The tea was ready and she handed one steamy cup to her tenant. Rather sternly, she said.

"John's getting married tomorrow."

"You don't need to remind me."

"You aren't going to..."

"No."

"It's been almost three years… He thought you were dead. "

"Mrs. Hudson. I came back two days ago... He can wait for a few more days. He's perfectly safe with… that girl."

The man's voice was tinged with annoyance.

"Don't you have to lay out your dress for tomorrow? By the way, thank you for the tea."

She hesitated for a moment; she just remembered that she had to find the hat that matched her dress. Ignoring his peevish grin, she drank a few sips of her tea before dropping the bomb.

"Sherlock, are you afraid of John's reaction when he sees you? Or are you scared of his bride?"

Mrs. Hudson's words obviously made the detective uncomfortable. He didn't answer, but his shoulders suddenly tensed. He pressed his hands to his temples and closed his eyes.

"Before he moved out, John told me why you jumped. You shouldn't have done that, Sherlock. Over the past three years, my heart ached with the guilt, and your sacrifice. When you showed up two days ago, I was angry, but...also happy because you weren't dead. Don't be worried that John will turn his back on you. Eventually he will forgive you. He might punch you before that happens, though."

Sherlock faintly smiled, remembering the 30-minute fit of temper which ended with hugging, sobbing, and an hour of "inquisition". He had rarely heard of Mrs. Hudson cussing until two days before. He was very happy to see his landlady again, but her presence at this moment was not welcome – he wanted to be alone. The landlady took a sip, and the sleuth didn't lose his chance - he cut in with a right question.

"Mrs. Hudson. I've got to ask something, since I've never been married... A wedding is supposedly the happiest day of their lives for the groom and the bride, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes, Sherlock. Once I was a bride, the best day of my life, or I had thought…"

Mrs. Hudson's eyes became misty. After giving her seconds to reminisce, he continued.

"The couple is like the Sun and the world turns around them, right?"

"Yes. That's why you should call John now. He'll be over the moon… You will be the best wedding present that he can wish for…"

Managing the innocent tone of his voice, he continued.

"Mrs. Hudson. If I show myself to John tonight, my presence will be a significant distraction. Isn't it unfair to the bride?"

This shut up the old lady instantly - he was absolutely right. She hastily changed the subject.

"Well, Mary is a very sweet and kind girl. You'll like her once you get to know her."

Sherlock's next question made her even uncomfortable.

"So who's got the honor of the best man?"

Mrs. Hudson turned red and stuttered,

"The best man is Mike Stamford... Sherlock, you know that John must have chosen you if you hadn't 'died'. Oh, and your brother politely declined John's request."

"Ha, Mycroft as best man? He should've said yes. It would've helped his diet. Good night, Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock yawned a few times and rubbed his eyes; hopefully Mrs. Hudson could read the obvious sign of dismissal.

"You'd better go to your bedroom, Sherlock. Well, good night. I'll ask Molly to take a lot of pictures. You can look at them later."

Mrs. Hudson turned around and shuffled out of the room. She had been trying to talk Sherlock into attending John's wedding over the past 48 hours. To her back, Sherlock added.

"Mrs. Hudson, just don't tell him until he comes back from the honeymoon. That'll give John a heart attack."

He heard the door of 221A shut. There were two more people who had to be hushed at the wedding - Lestrade and Molly. He sent a short message.

_Don't tell him until he comes back from his honeymoon. SH_

He flung himself on the sofa and closed his eyes without changing.

* * *

**The Wedding Day**

It was a beautiful day: a blue sky, the breeze of early spring, a flowery smell, chirping birds… Elated, John Watson walked down the stairs of the church with his charming bride, Mary. Mrs. Hudson dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief; Molly giggled in her new green dress: she looked wonderful without her lab gown and usual ponytail. Some of the guests looked at her appreciatively. Nicely dressed guests attended the wedding – John's colleagues at the practice; their friends and family; some Yarders like Dimmock and Lestrade. The guests threw rice and rose petals at the couple. Some of the guests were familiar faces. Harry Watson kept taking pictures and, at times, pecked and hugged her new sister-in-law. Mycroft shook hands with the groom and smiled at the bride. The bridal bouquet was caught by a surprised Molly, to everybody's applause. Lestrade approached the overjoyed couple, and pointed at the limousine decorated with flowers. The new Mrs. Watson and Mr. Watson disappeared into the car, and other guests followed. The wedding reception was to be held in the cafeteria of New Scotland Yard.

Mycroft Holmes didn't join the guests. Instead, he got inside his car and sat next to his brother, who had watched the wedding from a small screen –CCTV. Before the older Holmes said anything, the detective provoked his brother.

"So, why not be the best man? It would've helped your diet."

"Nice try, Sherlock, but you won't distract me."

Sherlock pouted and looked away. Inside the car, his cheekbones looked even more prominent. Mycroft sighed, wondering about what to do to make sure Sherlock understood: John had moved on. He decided to talk with Mrs. Hudson soon. His voice turned gentle and low.

"Are you okay?"

"Of course. It's just a boring ceremony. I can't understand why people bother with such trivia."

"Where do you want to go?"

"221B."

"When are you going to tell him? You can't hide it forever."

"It's none of your business, Mycroft. Piss off."

The detective sounded defiant, as usual, but it didn't bother Mycroft.

"Tell him…"

"Yes, after the honeymoon."

"Sherlock, John suffered a lot. Especially the first year, it pained even me to watch him in and out of the hospital. Depression, alcohol….I had to get a court order to confiscate his gun."

At the glare of his brother, Mycroft whispered.

"I couldn't have been completely honest with you. It was much worse than I let on… It was John's luck that he and Mary Morstan had been taken hostage in a botched bank robbery a year ago."

"221B, please."

The car began to move. Mycroft stared at his brother for several minutes. His brother was agitated, although he had managed to hide it. Abruptly the detective banged the leather seat with his fist.

"I had thought nothing would have changed when I returned."

Mycroft read between the lines – his brother was asking if John had forgotten him.

"Well, almost nothing _has_changed. Everybody is alive and well, thanks to you. London's streets are by far safer with Moriarty's web destroyed. I'm seriously thinking of asking the Queen to about a knighthood for you."

Sherlock snapped.

"Don't you_dare_!"

He looked at the familiar streets passing by – London. He was back home, yet he felt like a stranger. He punched the car door. Without thinking, he muttered in exasperation,

"Everything has changed."

Mycroft flinched –as far as he remembered, Sherlock had never let his emotions out like this, not since Mother's funeral. He might have to upgrade the surveillance just in case - possible relapse and no John to watch over his brother: it wasn't a good combination.

The detective glared at his reddened fist. The snippets about John and London from Mycroft had affected the detective to the level that could threaten his mission to tear down Moriarty's web. After a couple of mistakes that might have alerted Moriarty's men – thankfully the detective was lucky, they hadn't – Sherlock had had to lock away the memories of John and 221B into storage deep in his mind palace. With no distraction, he was able to come back a few months earlier than he had originally expected. John's words rang in his ears again: the words the doctor had said on the last night at 221B before they ran away from the police force.

_Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time. _

John believed in him– the only friend who never hesitated to stand in front of a bullet to save him. The doctor had never lost faith: Sherlock had been so sure of it until recently. But this Mary girl changed John, he wouldn't be the same. Clearing his throat, the younger Holmes put on a face of indifference and asked for the first time in five days.

"What's she like, John's bride? Her name's Mary? Is she just one of the women that John had dated, who always whined for more attention and presents, and held grudges about distractions like me?"

"Give a little credit to John. He has _some_taste in women."

"If he had, then he'd have settled much earlier."

Sherlock scoffed. Mycroft gave him a look and spoke.

"I've been watching Mary for a year. She is a charming and smart kindergarten teacher. Once I "came across" them in a café, and I saw that she was right for John. She was well-informed of John's past and you, Sherlock, and she was very understanding. She's also one of the few people who aren't intimidated by me."

Ignoring his brother's scandalized face, he added.

"I expect I'll hear good news from the Watsons quite soon."

The detective looked almost disgusted - did his brother imply that John would be having_children_? Would it possible for him to share John's attention with strangers? It had been wise of him to delay the reunion after their honeymoon. He needed time.

"I know the past three years had been painful for you, Sherlock. Just remember what John would feel if he found out the truth… He's a soldier. He would've rather died in battle with you than…"

"Shut up, Mycroft."

Silence fell. Sherlock knew his brother was right. Yet he felt betrayed. John's marriage was unexpected news. His brother had informed him of the wedding three days before he flew back to London. Could he blame John? No… It was the detective who had shut out the doctor to save his friends. Mockingly, the sleuth muttered,

"Do I have to put on a big show, pretending to give John my blessing? It's not going to happen."

Mycroft groaned –had Sherlock not changed at all over the years? He stared at his brother for a moment while the detective glared at the window. No, Sherlock wasn't a sociopathic man anymore. He'd changed. Otherwise, he would've contacted John already. It must've taken a significant amount of self-control not to. His brother was giving John and his bride time before he revealed himself because John would have to balance his life between his wife and his friend once he found out that Sherlock was alive.

The car stopped in front of 221B, and Mycroft spoke when Sherlock opened the car door.

"I'll have to attend the reception to represent the Holmes family. I'll drop by tonight."

The detective got out of the car and walked into his flat without any words. The door shut with a bang and the car slowly headed towards New Scotland Yard.


	2. Chapter 2

Even ACD wasn't consistent when he wrote the canon. The drive of the story had to be the friendship between SH and JW. JW's first wife, Mary had to die; and the poor doctor was on and off relationship. I'm really curious about season 3. Can Mary play more of a role in the modernday adoptation? Mary's POV. This is my first attempt to describe such character... Please, review. Thanks.

* * *

"I always feel his presence in our own bedroom even when we make love! He's everywhere."

John's shoulders sagged. He slouched on the couch, wrapping his face with hands. He had stopped fighting back. The silent acceptance hurt me more.

_Have he just realized that our marriage had reached a point of no return? Why am I repeating the same words over and over like a broken record player? _

I finished my beer and choked out words.

"Sleep. You have to go to the clinic in three hours."

I left him and entered the study room; I could hear his heavy footsteps into the bedroom. I turned on my laptop and checked on the mailbox. There it was - a kind reply from Mr. McGuire, a close friend of my father, a competent divorce lawyer. My father had contacted him a week ago. I confirmed our first meeting. Looking out the dark street outside, I bit my lips.

I should've known that John was Sherlock's blogger rather than my husband. I had underestimated Sherlock's shadow looming over our marriage… I had thought Sherlock Holmes was dead when I accepted John's proposal.

* * *

Everything began at the airport. We were supposed to attend a dinner at my aunt's: almost all the relatives were there, waiting for the new Watsons, including my parents who had to fly back to Florida the following day. We were waiting at the luggage claim, and he turned on his mobile. Almost instantly, a text alert came. I say his eyes frantically move after he checked on the new message. His face turned pale; his breath became shallow. He kept staring at the screen until I asked what the problem was. He didn't even hear me. He was lost somewhere; his eyes were not looking at me.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

I gave him a questioning look and he sighed.

"He's alive."

"Who's alive?"

"Sherlock. Or this is a nasty prank."

"Who sent the text?"

"It's his old number."

"Just ignore it. What did it say?"

"It said he would meet me outside."

"It could be a prank… We'll see if it's a prank or not soon… Hey, there's your case."

He pulled our luggage down. He got another text message, and his face hardened. I looked at the screen, which said.

_Sherlock's alive. He's at Heathrow. MH._

Another text alert.

J_ohn. Sherlock's not dead. GL._

Who are they that send the texts almost at the same time? I vaguely remembered MH stood for Mycroft Holmes, the older brother of Sherlock Holmes. I had met him once; he was a gentleman: we talked quite friendly about Shakespeare.

In silence, we rolled our way following the stream of other passengers. Soon the flow got slowed down because…John stopped dead: he looked as if he was seeing a ghost. My eyes followed his and there was a man –black curls, pale face, rangy and slim body, and the dark-coat with a navy scarf. He was the detective. But he was dead almost three years ago, taking his own life in a scandal which I was ignorant of until I met John. As far as I knew, he was six-feet under: I had visited his grave with John a week before the wedding.

"Let's move, John."

He followed me and I stopped three feet away from the man. We studied each other. John's eyes were blank. The stranger's penetrating eyes made me rather uncomfortable. I opened my mouth first because John who should have introduced us didn't say anything.

"You're…you were…his flatmate, right?"

I used past tense on purpose. The detective sensed it, and smiled at me.

"John, and Mrs. Watson, I suppose. Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure to meet you."

His voice didn't sound he really meant it. I gave him a small and polite smile.

"Mr. Holmes, Nice to meet you. John has been talking a lot about you. I thought you were…"

"That's a long story, Mrs. Watson."

John shook his head, and staggered his way on one of the benches nearby. He sat there, shaking his head, and muttering cussing.

"I presume you have an appointment tonight, given the extra duty-free bags full of souvenirs. Shall we catch a cab?"

As my husband had said, the sleuth had keen eyes. He started rolling both cases for us while letting me help John to walk. We slid inside the back seat, while he squeezed inside after shoving the cases in the trunk.

"The address is…"

I told the cabbie our destination. John was still in shock, and I tried a small talk with the resurrected Sherlock.

"So where have you been? When did you come back?"

"Abroad, I had a mission. I came back to London two days before your wedding. By the way, it was a beautiful wedding, Ms. Watson. Your tiara, quite old; must be from your mother or grandmother…"

"My mother…, it's a family heirloom. Did you attend our wedding? I don't remember seeing you."

John's head snapped at him.

"No, I just watched from faraway."

The car stopped. Sherlock got out and took out our luggage for us while John paid the cabbie.

"Shall we get in?"

I asked innocently although I noticed Sherlock's eyes fixed on him. John reddened a bit, clenching his fists and saying apologetically.

"Mary, I'm really sorry. Can you give me about half an hour? I need to talk to him."

The suppresed anger in his voice… I could sense his bitterness.

"Okay, I'll tell them that you headed back to the airport because you had forgotten something. I'll give you one hour, John. Dinner will be around 7:00."

He nodded his thanks, squeezed my hands, and let me go. Sherlock nodded a good bye to me. He turned around and headed to a nearby coffee place. John followed suit.

After one hour John didn't come. Everybody had to eat dinner without me because I refused. I was more worried than annoyed: I tried to contact John to no avail. My parents tentatively suggested I file a missing person's report the next morning. The bell rang once after 4 o'clock. John was standing: he was messed up: bruises on his face; bleeding lips. He assured my parents and me that he was okay; and apologized profusely...until I urged him to sleep for a few hours. While we were eating breakfast, not John who was fast asleep, my aunt warned me about the tricky relationship that I had to establish between John and the detective. She had had the same trouble at the early stage of her marriage because of my uncle's best friend. She got pregnant in a hurry, and that had set the priority of my uncle. I had laughed about her advice secretly. Now I knew she had foreseen what was coming.

* * *

It barely took a month before the sleuth managed to break the ice and to recruit my husband as his blogger. John used to be punctual and predictable between the practice and home. He always responded to my calls. He had been popular at the clinic because of his gentle attitude and kinds words on top of his medical skills. One morning, his nurse frantically called me to check if John was sick. John didn't answer his phone. I was so worried about him until he called me back around noon and apologized again and again for worrying me. That was only the beginning. John was not the same John that I knew anymore. He missed his shift at the practice; barely answered my calls or texts; forgot family gatherings or dates. He came home at odd hours. It was much faster for me to contact Greg Lestrade to know whereabouts of my husband than to wait for his return call.

To Sherlock Holmes, he always kept distance from me. He was kind and polite, but nothing else. Love was an unfathomable sentiment to the detective; and I was an unknown force that had taken away his John in his absence. Obviously Mr. Holmes appreciated my presence while he had been away. As a small gesture to respect some boundaries, he dared not to enter our house despite my invitations. As long as he could whisk away John from his profession anytime, the sleuth seemed to be content. He was a threat to my marriage: he changed my John. John Watson was a stranger to me: his eyes were fervent, his steps bouncy; he reminded me of a leopard. I had never seen such vibrancy. I had never evoked the sparkle in his eyes like Sherlock did. I felt powerless. I was jealous of the detective.

How many times I had argued over John's incapacity to prioritize things. For a married man, he didn't know that his family - me- should be the priority number one. At first, I accepted John's apologies whenever he stood me up at restaurants or movie theaters; or failed to show up at family gatherings. However, I had ran out of sellable excuses. It didn't take long for my close relatives to feel the strain. On my aunt's advice, I decided to fake my pregnancy.

John weren't supposed to know anything. Around him I was a manifestation of gentleness and composure: he never saw through my instability. He was blind to my fluctuations because I put on the bravest façade in front of him, asking how Mr. Holmes was doing and inviting him over Sunday lunch for I knew too well that he wouldn't come.

About a month after our first wedding anniversary, John was away for a seminar and I took advantage of his absence. I visited Mrs. Hudson to have tea together. On an excuse of delivering something from John to the sleuth, I followed Sherlock when he entered the flat. His hands stopped in midair while pouring tea when I lied I was pregnant. The tea overflew and made a puddle on the carpet, which he didn't notice. A baby… It was an unwelcome surprise. His eyes were penetrating my body, especially my belly yet I had betted that the detective would not notice my lies. I pleaded him to keep the father of the baby safe.

"Mr. Holmes. My husband will jump in front of a bullet to save you. He has such a loyalty. But, he can't keep on taking a risk – he is a married man and soon he's going to be a father. Please, I beg you, work your cases alone. You don't need a personal assistant."

His eyes bore into mine for a minute and then he gave me a small nod. I left the room with a small victory. I had thought everything would be back to normal.

For the following weeks, John showed up on time at his work, and always came home for dinner at 7:00. However, it didn't take long before he noticed things. He became restless and checked his mobile every minute. I heard him shouting out a message to Sherlock's phone. He pranced on the detective one night at 221B to ask why. Sherlock must have said he didn't need him anymore before he ran out of the flat on an excuse of important family matter. The detective seemed to have taken in my plea seriously and I felt a slight guilt for my lies. But it was to save my marriage from sinking. That night, when the sleuth had ran away, John came home completely drunk. He grabbed my arms and kissed. He needed some assurance of being desired by somebody. That night, I was so sure that I got pregnant. Everything fitted perfectly.

I found that I was pregnant after a couple of weeks. John didn't have a clue: something had sapped out from him. He was polite but distant. Instead of reading medical journals or searching for information to find new medications, John pored into newspapers and or glared at Sherlock's website, Science of Deduction, to guess what Sherlock must have done to solve a case. He texted the DI and Molly Hooper at Bart's so many times that his number popped up in the DI's rejection list. It made him depressed. He barely talked me; he didn't sleep up to past 3 o'clock; he paced around the sitting room muttering and mumbling profanity. He didn't notice that I had quit my job. He was blind to morning sickness - he was neglecting me. I tried to argue with him, craving for his attention and care. I had to say I was having his baby. However, his blank eyes always made me shut up: I was afraid of his reaction. What would I do if he remained distant even after I broke the news?

I mustered my courage and planned to tell him on his birthday: I would be 2 - 3 months pregnant. A week before the birthday, I started bleeding. A few days later, the doctor confirmed a spontaneous abortion with no need for a surgery. The loss of my baby was a premonition that my marriage was hopeless. That night, I waited for John to come home. I wanted to grieve in his arms and confide my fears and guilt in him. I was on tenterhooks because he didn't come home past midnight with no calls or texts. Well past 2:00, he sent me a short message. Sherlock had been shot and was taken to emergency surgery. The next morning, I heard clicking sound of his key. I had stayed up all night, drinking wine and watching the film of our marriage. I was a happy bride that day. John was Mr. Perfect for me. How could he have changed so suddenly? He behaved as if he were bewitched… John walked into the sitting room, and stared at me as if I were a different woman. His eyes fleeted at the half-empty wine bottle next to me. His gaze unhinged me. He was about to pass me, when I mockingly hummed a happy birthday song. He stopped and turned around.

"Many happy returns, John."

"You're drunken. You had enough. Go to bed, Mary."

His voice lacked any emotions. He was about to turn around when I smashed a small birthday cake at him.

"How does it taste?"

He shook his head. He disposed his bag onto the sofa, got paper towel from the kitchen. and washed the cake off his jacket as much as possible. After some time, he asked dryly.

"When's your due date? According to Sherlock, I should be a father around..."

Dumping the towel in the bin, he took out a water bottle from the refrigerator. After drinking half of the bottle, he added.

"If you had been pregnant, you'd be in your second trimester by now. I would've noticed the change."

He was asking about me at last; a week earlier, his question must've put me on cloud nine.

"Sherlock congratulated me on my fatherhood when he…came to after the surgery."

My voice didn't even tremble. It didn't feel real.

"I had to save our marriage. What could have I done?"

John just shrugged, which made me snap. He was a part of the marriage. He had not shown any efforts to mend the relationship. It was the first time that he had ever seen me cussing. He tried to calm me down but my agitation was unstoppable. My eyes being livid, I yelled at him.

"I miscarried yesterday – week five and half. The doctor confirmed. You never noticed me…"

He flinched at my words. With his eyes in belated alarm, he reached out for my hands. I shook him off and uttered the last words.

"There are three people in our marriage- you, me, and Sherlock Holmes."

He couldn't find the right excuse to my accusations. His mouth opened and closed in words that won't come out. He crumbled on the floor when I snarled.

"I always feel his presence even when we make love! He's everywhere."

* * *

For the following month, not a day passed without bickering between John and me. Although he had admitted that he was responsible, he acknowledged neither his "full" responsibility nor Sherlock's fault. He put more blame on my lies that had temporarily estranged him from Sherlock Holmes, thereby putting more strains on our marriage. Mr. McGuire intervened for a friendly divorce. John moved out and stayed in a small motel. Mrs. Hudson visited me without a notice, and asked if there could be any way to mend the relationship. I couldn't give her a positive answer. I wondered how the detective took in the news of John's divorce. He might be grinning now. After 6 weeks between the decree nisi and the decree absolute, the divorce was confirmed; we sold our flat, divided the money in half and returned the rings. It was a hectic work to clean away vestiges of our marriage. After everything was settled, I purchased a flight ticket to Florida, one-way.

I looked around the house for the last time. I gave the key to the real estate agent, and got inside the cab to the Heathrow airport.


	3. Chapter 3

**Heathrow Airport**

Mary Morstan looked thinner and paler when she entered the Café at the Terminal 5. Sherlock stood up to greet her. Her eyes lingered for seconds on his left arm in a sling. She sat down with a small nod.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. How's your arm?"

"Hello. Much better, thank you. Would you drink something, tea, coffee?"

"Coffee, please."

Sherlock brought two coffee cups and held one out to Mary. The detective sat down and took a sip: Mary asked curiously without drinking.

"As far as I know, you take two sugars in your coffee. John's gotten into that habit."

Her words had an edge; he hesitated briefly.

"Ah… I suppose black coffee has become palatable to me."

"How's John doing?"

"Good. He came over to my flat last night."

"I knew he would restart his work as your blogger soon."

Mary sipped her coffee with a shrug.

"He wasn't visiting me to discuss my cases. He…"

Sherlock stopped in the middle of a sentence: it sounded worse. Last night John got drunk and rambled on for hours about his failed marriage and Mary's imminent departure. Mrs. Hudson made the doctor sleep in his old room because it was getting too late. Sherlock tried to change the subject.

"You are going back to Florida?"

Mary raised her eyes.

"My parents are living there. John must have mentioned it to you."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm thinking about going to graduate school."

"Good for you."

Mary fidgeted a bit. Taking a deep breath, she opened her mouth.

"I didn't expect your text. Well, I have something to tell you. I'm sorry that I had lied to you…about the baby. That was the last resort to try."

She looked down at her hands.

"I was jealous of you. You brought back energy and vivacity in his life. I've never been able to rekindle the fire."

Sherlock was obviously taken aback at her honesty. He managed to give her a weak smile.

"I know you at least tried to help me by excluding John from your cases although it backfired."

The sleuth admitted rather reluctantly because there was little to talk about.

"I wasn't tactful. Ms. Morstan. I'm sorry about your divorce and… the loss of your baby."

She let out a bitter laughter.

"Is it your penitence? Isn't it too late? Well, bad timing, Mr. Holmes. It was a series of bad timings. Your return, the wedding, my lies, and the loss of a baby. I was stuck at a wrong place…between you and John from the beginning. I should've left when you came back."

She took a few sips from her cup, swallowed hard, and blurted out a question rather rudely.

"Why did you text me?"

"Ms. Morstan. I assume you won't come back to England for the time being. This would be my last chance to see you. There's something I need to say."

He hesitated a bit and took a deep breath before he whispered.

"Uh, thank you so much for keeping him safe."

She clarified.

"To keep YOUR John safe… That was my part in your great play, Mr. Holmes. You, John, Lestrade, Ms. Hudson… they all are so closely weaved in your play – it repels strangers like me. There was no place for Mrs. Watson. John had never been mine."

Sherlock was speechless, not knowing how to respond to her words. She emptied her cup and looked up, feigning indifference.

"You'll protect him from dangers."

"You know I'll."

Their eyes met; her eyes saw a commitment in his eyes: it was assuring. She rummaged through her bag, retrieved a brown paper package, and slid it towards the detective. He opened it and found a navy wool scarf.

"John had given it to me on my first birthday after we became a couple. His therapist was thrilled when she heard about it. A blue scarf used to freak John out for some time after your death. I found it this morning in the closet. I was thinking about keeping it for memories...or dumping it at the airport... Obviously, it's not mine."

After a pause, she stated in a matter of fact way.

"I see confusion in your eyes. You know, Mr. Detective, friendship can grow into love."

She gave the man a snobby smile at his astonished face. She stood up, and slung her bag on the shoulder.

"Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Holmes. I have to go. There are some duty-free items I want to look around."

"Bon voyage, Ms. Morstan. Thank you."

He stood up and held out his hand, but she ignored the gesture.

"There is a paper-thin difference between friendship and love."

Her last words almost petrified the detective. She didn't take his hand and left without looking back.

* * *

From the author.

The draft was originally from Sherlock's POV and my friend told me that was obviously slash - when she read "John reddened a bit". She suggested that I change it into a third person's view. So here it is. I tried to describe Sherlock whose brilliance fail to define his feelings towards John. Mary, with her instinct and keen eyes, enlightens the clueless genius. This is my first attempt to "preslash"; I'd appreciate your reviews...


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